In This Moment
by Butterfly Needle
Summary: When you live only for the present, the past blurs and fades, and things you've seen 100 times can be as fascinating now as they were years ago. A sunny afternoon; a drawing; arms full of tattoos... One-shot. Chidori and Takaya share a moment, or an hour.


**Disclaimer:** Persona 3 isn't mine. I'm making no profit from this story.

**Author's Notes:** Normal people get songs stuck in their heads. Writers get fully-formed scenes begging to be written. I don't think I'm complaining.

This was originally intended to be part of a larger work, but it's really not... dark enough. I'm too fond of it not to post it, though, so... here it is!

**In This Moment**

Late afternoon sunlight floods the small apartment, casting bright blocks of yellow-gold against the blank white walls. It's warm, too, almost hot against Chidori's side and arm and leg as she sits perched on the windowsill; she's been following the sun from one warm spot to another all afternoon, and not only for the light it casts on the sketchbook propped against her knees. A strong affinity for fire burns in her blood, after all, so isn't it only natural for her to like warm places?

She's not the only one enjoying the sunlight. Sprawled out on a couch across the cluttered living room is Takaya, eyes closed against the sunbeam playing across his face, and it's on him that Chidori's full attention is focused; whether he realizes it or not, he's an excellent model. Chidori takes it all in and puts it down in thick, jagged lines, missing nothing - not the way Takaya's hair spills over the arm of the couch, or the one foot that's somehow ended up in Jin's lap, or the revolver kept within easy reach even in the middle of the day.

But she can't see everything from across the room, and there are empty spaces in the drawing, details too subtle to be grasped at this distance and too unimportant to ever have been committed to memory. For years Takaya has been her savior, her protector, and maybe even her friend... but without him close in front of her she can't truly capture him on paper. An artist she might be, but she can't draw a powerful presence - can't capture startling charisma and incredible drive in mere pencil strokes.

Maybe the sensible thing to do would be to move closer, but she's awfully comfortable in the window and the warmth. The same can probably be said for Takaya, but she can't say she's particularly interested in _his_ comfort. All she cares about is finishing her drawing before the sun sets, so that when the Dark Hour comes she will have no distractions.

"Takaya!"

Getting the guys' attention is easy in the lazy afternoon quiet; that one word is enough to make Takaya stir and open his eyes, while Jin nearly drops the video game controller clutched in his hands, startled by the sudden reminder of Chidori's presence. Chidori sketches out a last few details before Takaya has a chance to move too much, fully committing his half-asleep sprawl to paper before he sits up.

"Come here," she finally says, setting down her pencil for a moment. The drawing is almost complete, and she almost considers just leaving it as it is, an acurate portrayal in every aspect but one. There's too much white in his arms, too much empty space that no amount of shading and detail can make right; the Takaya stretched across her paper is missing his tattoos. She can't see them properly from across the room, and even after all these years she can't seem to remember just what they look like.

It bothers her a little, because she thinks she _should_ remember. But _trying_ to remember gets her nowhere, and pushing it touches on things better left forgotten, things that make her bite her lip and squirm away from the feelings they bring up.

At any rate, Takaya humors her without question, coming to lean on the windowsill beside her with a curious glance at her sketchbook. She clutches it to her chest to hide it from him and shakes her head, though the ghost of a smile plays across her lips. "It isn't finished," she tells him, and then, "show me your arms. I need to see your tattoos."

It's a strange request and she knows it, but she also knows, even before he obligingly stretches out his arms for her, that Takaya will humor her. Comfortably secure in the knowledge that in this apartment, at least, the world makes sense, she sits back against the window and takes hold of Takaya's wrist to study the tattoos more closely.

For a while she almost forgets about her drawing. She traces the lines of barbed wire inked around his wrist with her fingertips, suddenly flooded with a strange familiarity that seems too strong to be mere déjà vu. So she has done this before, then - has studied Takaya's arms and taken in every line, every block of color, with her fingers as well as with her eyes. Why can't she _remember_...?

Her pencil lies abandoned on the windowsill beside her, the sketchbook open and all but forgotten in her lap. She's lost all interest in drawing, lost in thought as she wonders what might compel a person to permanently make themselves a canvas for someone else's art. It's not a question she feels that she could ever ask Takaya - they all express themselves in different ways, and she doubts he would be any happier explaining than she would be explaining why she chooses to dress the way she does.

Lost in thought, in the pleasantly foreign feel of someone else's skin against her fingertips, she doesn't notice as the sun starts to set and robs her of enough light to finish the drawing. She doesn't notice anything, in fact, except the tattoos that fascinate her so. It's easy for her to focus on one thing and block out everything else. Perhaps it's a survival skill, learned long ago to protect herself from the torture that's made her who she is.

"Chidori."

She doesn't notice Takaya saying her name until he touches her cheek to get her attention. Reluctantly, she lets her hands fall to her lap, meeting his eyes for only a moment before looking away. Outside the window, the sky is going dark, the clouds streaked red and gold as the sun sets; Jin has abandoned his video game in favor of his laptop, typing furiously, no doubt deep in some argument that Chidori couldn't care less about. Things like these are the only real indication of how much time has passed, for she feels as though it's been mere minutes.

She pulls away from Takaya, stands, and shakes out her skirt, an afternoon's worth of eraser dust and pencil shavings falling to the floor. All her motivation to draw is gone for the night, so she leaves the sketchbook on the windowsill, open to the page she was working on. "You can look at it now, if you'd like," she tells Takaya in an uncharacteristic moment of generosity that will have to serve as a "thank you".

And she does owe him thanks. She feels oddly at peace now, and content, even though she aches from being so still and cramped for so long. Whatever the reason, it's... nice.


End file.
